The Spear of Destiny (2 page)

  The prisoner turned his head slightly towards his guard who fought the urge not to vomit. It was hot in the back of the ambulance and the policeman felt a little claustrophobic. He tore his eyes away from the man on the gurney and tried to focus on the conversation the driver and co-driver were having. He forced his mind to drown out the sickly rattle and concentrated. The two in front were discussing a football match that had been televised the evening before. It had been a world cup qualifier between Nigeria and Tunisia and unbelievably, against the odds, Tunisia had forced a 1-1 draw and were currently second in the group with one match to play.

  “I’m telling you,” the co-driver said, “If that Nigerian defender hadn’t been on the goal line that header would have beaten the goalkeeper and gone in.”

  “Maybe,” the driver replied.

  “Maybe? It would.”

  “It was difficult to tell. The camera angle wasn’t very good.”

  “No. My brother has a very good television. It would have gone in and then we would be on top of our group and not second.”

  Tunisia’s next game would be against Morocco.

  “The next match will also be difficult for our team,” the driver said.

  “I will say a thousand prayers that they are victorious. My prayers will be heard.”

  “I hope so my brother, I hope so.”

The policeman was listening with only half an ear. The football didn’t interest him. He was very much a family man. The only thing that mattered to him was his job, his wife and two young daughters.

  “Do you have the time please?” the man on the gurney asked in his strange, rattling voice.

  The policeman started for a moment. This was the first time the prisoner had spoken to anyone. Tearing his eyes away from the very scarred face once again he flicked his wrist over and looked at his watch.

  “It is just after eight thirty.”

  “Do you think you could ask them to turn the lights down.”

  “No.”

Now for the first time the man wearing the hooded top raised his head and his guard saw the whole face for the first time. The scars crisscrossed every spare bit of skin and flesh. In places the skin was so paper thin the policeman could see the red sinews below. The eyes were different too. One was dark and the other had a whitish tinge to the iris. There was no facial hair, no whiskers, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. The skin around the lips, which were dry, around the nose and eyes was pulled tight. So tight that when the man spoke his lips hardly moved. What the guard could see of the forehead appeared to be equally scarred. Now he saw one ear which was shrivelled, the lobe burned off. The skin around the neck and throat was red and scarred and stopped where the hooded top began. The man’s hands were also scarred.

  The policeman tried to outstare his prisoner but found he couldn’t and he looked down at his hands which were folded in his lap.

  “I have just received laser treatment for my injuries and the bright lights are hurting my face. So if I may ask again could they please turn the lights down.”

  The eyes held their stare. The guard glanced at them, in particular the white one again. Then he looked down at the handcuffs and moved his right leg slightly and felt the reassurance of his holstered handgun. Instinctively his fingers touched the butt of his handgun and the prisoner’s eyes followed the movement. The prisoner smiled, the skin on his lips near splitting, the red flesh underneath dancing.

  “I appreciate your concerns,” the prisoner said. He lifted his wrists up until the handcuffs stopped them moving any further. The one closest to the guard broke the skin on the wrist and pinkish fluid oozed from the tear, “But where could I possibly run to?”

  The guard was watching the sticky substance from the broken skin. Then he looked up into the eyes and nervously nodded.

  “Thank you.”

The policeman turned and spoke to the co-driver who looked back at him, glanced at the patient, then shrugged and flicked the interior lights switch, turning them down to a minimum.

  “That’s much better. Thank you,” the scarred man said laying back and resting his head on the pillow. His breathing became the wheezing rattle once again. The policeman closed his eyes to try to block the sound out.

  “How long have you been a policeman?”

His eyes flashed open again. He ignored the man and closed them again.

  “Do you have a family?”

This time he kept them closed.

  “I’m not allowed to talk to you.”

  “I’m sorry. I just thought a bit of polite conversation might make the journey go quicker.”

  “Be qiuet. The journey will be over soon enough.”

The scarred man remained quiet. Unseen by his guard his lips took on a strange smile.

  The policeman regretted what he’d said.

  ’Was I too harsh on him,’ he asked himself. He had had strict instructions prior to leaving to not speak to the prisoner. The man was apparently highly intelligent and dangerous, though he didn’t look it. The policeman felt a certain pity for him.

  “I’ve been a policeman for two years. I’m twenty seven and yes I have a beautiful wife and two adorable daughters.”

  “Then you’re a very lucky man,” came the reply.

The prisoner remained silent and when it was obvious that he wasn’t going to say anything else the policeman closed his eyes again, not to sleep but to offer a silent prayer that the infinite would always watch over his family.

  The convoy moved on through the desert. Occasionally they would pass a dwelling and see lights from within. The colours of their flashing lights reflecting off walls and buildings. Once they passed a line of camels heading in the opposite direction. Their headlights picking out the large, lumbering beasts being led by their masters. The sky was clear and stars twinkled, the full moon giving the sand a ghostly glow.

  The man on the gurney lay in silence. The pain in his face starting to ease. He looked out of the side window of the ambulance at the moon. It’s light soothing to him. Natural light was agonising to him. The scars on his face, neck, head and hands from burns he had sustained three months before.

  Before his injuries he had been a tall, proud man. A German count and billionaire, a collector of rare artifacts and antiquities. His most recent expedition had been to recover the sarcophagus of Alexander the Great, once held by the German’s in World War II, it had been lost at sea when the British had torpedoed the German’s freighter carrying it. Found seventy years later by a multinational team of archaeologists he had attempted to buy it from them. His money rejected he had taken it by force only to find out that it was in fact not Alexander’s sarcophagus. In a brutal battle on his ship he had been blown overboard in an explosion and pronounced dead. On the mortuary slab his very faint pulse had been detected. He had been treated until he was well enough to be detained in prison awaiting trial and possible extradition to the United States. The laser treatment for his injuries he was paying for himself.

  He listened for a moment to his guards breathing which was getting deeper. The man was falling asleep. The scarred man moved his wrist with the broken skin to ease it and the cuff dragged the arm of the gurney and woke the policeman again. The policeman leaned closer to his prisoner to check the bonds and saw they were still locked. He looked ahead out of the windscreen. In the light from the headlights he could see the road they were travelling was long and straight with hills ahead. In the far distance a glow on the horizon. Lights from the prison. Not much longer. Maybe five more kilometres.

  He detected a strange sound which wasn’t part of the ambulance. As he listened it got closer and closer, then was suddenly very loud. He saw the ambulance crew leaning forward and looking into and up in a door mirror each. The policeman was about to rush into the cab when he realised what the sound was, as a Russian Kamov Ka-50 ’Black shark’ attack helicopter flew low over the convoy. It kept pace with the ambulance for a few moments and then accelerated ahead over the lead police car, gained five hundred feet and flew over the approaching hills.

  In the lead jeep the officer in charge was telephoning through to the barracks they’d not long left. There had been no mention of air support on his itinery. It would be typical of General Ben Rashid Al-Din to do this without telling anyone and for a moment he dreaded questioning the General.

  The girl on the end of the telephone said.

  “Hold please while I put you through to the General.”

The officer swallowed hard and then replied.

  “No. Forget it. I don’t want the General disturbed.”

He rang off.

  ‘It must be above board‘ he said to himself but also out loud.

  “That helicopter must also be heading for the prison sir,” his driver said.

  “Yes,” the officer replied, “It might not necessarily be for us but it must be for the prison. There’s not much else out here. Just nomads and ruins.”

  He glanced back at his chained prisoner who just stared at the floor.

The convoy entered the hills. The road winding and twisting as it climbed. The lead police car pulling away from the much heavier ambulance. The road became a double bend as the hills closed in on both sides.  As the lead police car moved further ahead while maintaining its original speed a searchlight suddenly beamed on dazzling the driver as it picked up the police car. The Kamov helicopter was hovering twenty feet above the road in the narrow pass. The noise from its engine deafening. The driver of the police car put his arm up in front of his eyes, blinded by the intense light as the twin 23MM cannons on the Kamov spluttered into life. The bullets tore up the road as they raced towards their target. The cars headlights disappeared first in a shower of glass as both front tyres burst and bullets slammed into the two policemen inside the car killing them both instantly. Flames were pouring out from the bonnet and front wheel arches of the car as it exploded. The explosion throwing it twenty feet into the air. The helicopter some distance away jinked as the police car crashed down onto the road completely ablaze.

  The ambulance rounded the bend and the whole convoy screeched to a stop. The helicopter flew over the vehicles and turned side on to the tail police car and destroyed it with a single anti-tank missile. Now the narrow pass was completely blocked.

  The soldiers in the jeeps jumped out and took cover behind the ambulance the one vehicle they guessed would not be attacked. Inside the lead jeep the political prisoner was frantically pulling on his chains anchored to the floor. Not sure if this attack was to free him.

  Another anti-tank missile hit the last jeep and it exploded into the air and came down on its roof.

  The soldiers opened fire at the helicopter and it lifted and moved out of range.

  “Cease fire,” the officer shouted, “They’re not going to attack the ambulance.”

  There was a burst of gunfire from the surrounding hillside and the man next to him dropped dead. The officer swung around. He saw dark shapes descending on them.

  “They’re on the hillside!” 

His men opened fire on the hillsides as the men descending took cover behind scrub and rocks.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

The guns fell silent.

  “You have attacked Tunisian national forces. This is a deliberate act of terrorism. Throw down your weapons and give yourselves up.”

  The hillside waited in total silence. The whirring of the rotor blades near. Then a voice from the hill.

  “It is you who is surrounded. Throw down your weapons. No one else will be harmed.”   

  One of the Tunisians opened fire on the voice. A single shot from a Dragunov sniper rifle took him in the throat, blasting his blood against the side of the ambulance. He dropped to the road dead.

  “Hold your fire!” the Tunisian officer shouted.

  “This is your last chance to throw down your weapons.”

Another shot from the Dragunov and another soldier dead.

  “You will not get away with this!”

  “You are being covered from an elevated position. You are compromised. There is no escape!”

  The Tunisian officer opened fire. The hillside lit up with return fire and only stopped when the last soldier fell down dead. The only sounds other than the Kamov helicopter were the men on the hillside reloading their weapons. Slowly they came down to the road.

  Inside the ambulance the policeman guarding the prisoner had his face pressed against the small square window. He could see the burning police cars. The ambulance crew were cowering in their seats. A wicked sound of machine gun fire came through to them as a Tunisian national guardsman was put out of his misery.

  The policeman inside the ambulance backed away from the double doors at the rear of the vehicle as he heard footsteps stop outside.

  “Stay as you are and you won’t get hurt,” the scarred man ordered.

Suddenly the doors were yanked open and he went for his gun. A single shot took him in the head and his brains splattered the interior.

  The scarred man looked into the dead eyes.

  “Stupid fool.”

The front doors were now ripped open and machine guns covered the ambulance crew as they raised their hands.

  Former KGB agent Anatoly Petrov holstered his Glock 19 handgun.

  “He has the handcuff keys,” the scarred man gestured towards the policeman Petrov had just killed. Petrov searched the body, found the keys and unlocked the restraints. The scarred man rubbed his wrists, the broken skin sticky with fluid. Petrov stepped down into the road and made way for the scarred man.

  Count Otto Brest von Werner stepped carefully down onto the road. His private army of men saluted him.

  “Welcome back sir,” the Russian spoke.

  “Thank you Petrov. Any casualties?”

  “No sir. My team is all accounted for. Your ship is ten miles off the coast.”

Two black hawk helicopters flew in low over the hills and landed in the road. Petrov gestured to Von Werner.

  “If you’re ready sir.”  

  “Yes Mr Petrov. Take care of the vehicles.”